


Intemperance

by inelegantly (Lir)



Series: SWAG 2016 Fills [18]
Category: Hikaru no Go
Genre: Alcohol, Attraction, Canon Compliant, Caretaking, Crushes, Developing Relationship, Drinking, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 09:45:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6369904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lir/pseuds/inelegantly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Akira is the one who over-indulges with liquor, Ogata considers it only fair to care for him in return. He's expecting Akira to be miserable and sick; what he isn't expecting are the ways in which the alcohol loosens Akira's tongue and emboldens him beyond his usual steady resolve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intemperance

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the sports anime winter games, as my other take on the prompt, "Hikaru no Go, Anything and any characters related to vomiting." I'd done the version where Ogata is sick and needs caring for, and decided I might as well also do the flipside.

-

"And now who is it who shouldn't have been drinking?" Ogata asks.

The reply he receives is an unintelligible gurgle, muttered down toward the toilet bowl Akira is curled around. He's hugging it weakly, arms draped around it like he no longer quite has the strength to hold himself up. It's strange, seeing him like that — though Ogata has known Akira for the majority of his life, some of those years at a point when Akira was very young indeed, he has always, without exception, been polite and composed. 

Seeing him now, a sweaty mess with bangs plastered across his forehead and sticky drool dripping from shiny lips before slicking down his chin, the transformation is blindsiding. Ogata had never hoped to see the son of his mentor reduced to such a state. 

"If you'd like," he supplies, "I could get you a glass of water. If I recall, that sort of providence was, ah, previously en vogue." 

Akira makes another disgruntled gurgle, before summoning the will to shove himself upright around the toilet just so he can spear Ogata with the most outraged of looks. It takes all of Ogata's willpower not to take a step back, not in the face of the fighting spirit Akira otherwise reserves for his pro matches alone. 

_And for his confrontations with Shindou Hikaru,_ he thinks, but makes quite certain to keep to himself. 

"You have absolutely no place to—" Akira begins, gearing up to take a verbal chunk out of Ogata. But then his eyes go wide, and one of his hands slaps over his mouth. He's too slow — his cheeks bulge comically, before stringy vomit squeezes out between his fingers and drips into the toilet bowl. It's followed by a low moan from Akira, muffled by the hand still pressed against his lips. 

"Judge you?" Ogata supplies, finishing the sentence for him. "I would never presume to. Although I may hold off on getting that water for you. It doesn't look as if you're ready to keep it down." 

Akira mumbles miserably between his fingers, but this time, doesn't argue. 

Until that moment, Ogata has remained in the doorway, leaned against the frame where he can watch Akira from a safe, splash-free distance. It feels like relegating himself to the background in his own home — because that's where they are, and that is why he feels more than a little bit responsible for Akira's state, never mind his teasing. He was the one who provided the liquor; it's hardly Akira's fault he doesn't know his own tolerance. 

"On second thought," Ogata says. "I'll get that water. Just so you have something to rinse your mouth out with." 

He opts to do this from the kitchen, taking the opportunity to swipe up the glasses and bottle from the table where they had been playing Go on his way through the main living area. Those he deposits in the sink and tucks into a cabinet, before pulling down a fresh glass to fill from the tap. The sound of the water running, briefly though that is, is unexpectedly soothing. 

It almost drowns out the sound of Akira's renewed retching, audible from the other room. 

Ogata sighs to himself, leaning over the kitchen sink and drawing in a slow, deep breath. It isn't so unusual, for two pros to spend evenings together socially. Now that Akira has more than come into the reality of his profession, he is both a talented Go player and a recognized member of the all-too-cozy professional Go community. He's very much the sort of man Ogata might value spending time with — able to fight him evenly on the Go board and willing to converse with him frankly outside of that. 

The fact that Akira is the son of one of his oldest friends, well... The majority of the time, that is beside the point. Now that Ogata has plied Akira with liquor and set him to vomiting his stomach inside out, Ogata suspects that Touya Kouyou might not speak so fondly of the private games Ogata and Akira are having. 

It's a valid worry, that of overstepping of boundaries, but one Ogata chooses to push aside for the present. The gagging noises have once again ceased and when he walks back into the bathroom, Akira immediately thrusts out his hand for the glass. 

"Impatient," Ogata comments. But he doesn't deny Akira, instead kneeling down beside him and offering him the water. 

Akira takes it, swishing a mouthful of it around to clear out the sour vomit taste before spitting it disdainfully into the toilet. He makes a face, then repeats the motion. Watching him, limbs all pulled into a tight little ball, spine held rigid and tense as it's curled over the toilet, little ridges of his vertebrae visible even through the fabric of his shirt — watching him, Ogata can't quite bring himself to offer Akira the gentle weight of his hand, rubbing slow circles into the stretch of Akira's back.

"Thank you," Akira says, mumbling it down toward the toilet basin. 

"I don't think there's much you should be thanking me for," Ogata tells him in return. 

Akira peers up at him, an inquisitive, weighing look that slants up through his messy, sticky bangs. There's too much sharpness in those eyes, too much perception for Ogata to want to face with the demons of his moral guilt still lingering around his periphery. He's certain not to glance away; he simply stares blandly back at Akira, waiting for the assessment. 

"You were right," Akira says. "I didn't need to be drinking. And I could have stopped myself; it isn't that you forced any of your liquor onto me." 

Ogata laughs, a singular snort of amusement that he cuts quickly short. "You're right," he says. "I doubt I could force you into anything." 

For a moment Akira only watches him again, too-sharp eyes bright with focus. Then he's leaning forward — Ogata feels Akira's hand grip his shoulder, slender fingers digging tight into the flesh — and pressing his mouth to Ogata's, half-parted lips sliding messily against Ogata's lips. If asked, Ogata will plead surprise; deep down, he suspects that he knew very well what Akira was leaning in to do, and simply hadn't wished to stop it. 

Nevertheless, he doesn't quite kiss back. There's a long moment of Akira's mouth smearing against his, his sharp little tongue poking out to pry at the seam of Ogata's closed lips. He takes a breath in, and for just that moment Akira's tongue curls into his mouth, rich with the sour taste of bile and the lingering background flavor of the liquor they had both been drinking. 

Ogata remembers, all at once, that Akira might very well still be drunk, and takes that opportunity to push him gently away. 

He's taken aback by the fierceness of the _defiance_ on Akira's face, once he's leaned back enough to look. There's a viciousness lining his features of the sort he displays most often when playing games, his entire face alight with the challenge he's prepared to issue at once. Ogata draws the rest of the way back, rolling up on his heels and smoothly rising to his full height. 

"If you aren't vomiting any more," he says, electing to push right past the awkwardness of Akira's flirtation, "I suggest you sleep it off." 

"Here?" Akira asks. He's still gripping onto the toilet with one hand — Ogata's eyes are drawn to it, to where Akira's knuckles are showing white. 

"I'm not going to let you try and go _home_ like that," Ogata retorts. "Come on, let's get you to bed." 

"I couldn't put you out like that," Akira says. "You have a couch." 

"I have a bed," Ogata insists. "You're going to be in agony in the morning, and I am not so unkind as to begrudge you somewhere comfortable to rest while you wait for that to happen." 

Akira stares at him, the fierceness still there and highlighting all of his angular, regal features. Then he pushes himself up from where he'd been clutching the toilet and, to his credit, wobbles only once in getting to his feet. 

"Thank you," he says, as he walks past Ogata and out of the bathroom. "Your hospitality is very much appreciated." 

He says it in the same polite tone Ogata is so familiar with, soft-spoken and almost smiling, the perfect picture of manners. This time, as he moves past Ogata and smoothly continues down the hall to the door he knows is Ogata's room, the set of his lips gives a more victorious little twitch. Though Ogata won't begrudge him it, he thinks that Akira must view the concession of the bedroom as its own kind of victory. 

As Ogata walks in the opposite direction to make a bed of his couch, he isn't so certain Akira _hasn't_ won one off of him.

-

-


End file.
